Tension and Release
by blackpeartree
Summary: A slice-of-life friendship story in which Wilson struggles with the realities of having elderly parents and House is, well, himself.


Tension and Release

When his cell phone rings at a quarter of five in the morning, James Wilson picks it up on the second tone. He isn't sure who he wants to hear from least at that hour, so it's with mixed emotions that he recognizes the sound of his dad clearing his throat.

"James?" he asks, even though Wilson has explained to him that there'd generally be no reason for anyone else to be answering his cell phone.

"Yeah, dad. What is it?" He presses his knuckles to his mouth and tries to stifle a yawn.

"Your mother's caretaker got into a car accident last night. I thought we'd be okay, at least until the sun was up, but she's so restless and I can't find a replacement at this time of day, and, well, you know how she can get and I just don't…" He punctuates this with a helpless exhalation.

They'd had similar exchanges four times over the last two months, so Wilson is already out of bed and stumbling about his room, gathering his wallet and car keys and stepping into the first pair of pants he lays hands on. "I'll be there as soon as I can," he says and hangs up the phone without saying goodbye.

He pauses in the lobby to fill a travel mug with complimentary coffee and briefly considers waking House with a phone call to let him know where he would be that day, but settles instead on leaving a voice mail on Cuddy's office phone. House would probably somehow hear it before Cuddy did anyway.

There is a thin sheen of frost on the windshield of his car, but instead of scraping it he turns the defroster on full blast and leans his head against the steering wheel, steeling himself for the trip – and day – ahead. The drive to his parents' house is less than two hours if the conditions are right, and closer to one if he leaves the interstate and pushes his speed on the two-lane roads. As he backs out of his parking space, he catches and holds his gaze in the mirror. It's a long moment before he drives forward.

It's just past 7:00 when he pulls up to his parents' modest two-story house. They had moved there when Wilson was old enough to go to school but not too old to take naps after he got home. He and his brothers knew every buckled and creaky floorboard, and if Wilson had any real desire to look back, he's certain he could find cigar boxes stuffed with baseball cards, interesting rocks, pennies flattened by trains, and odd bits pilfered from the dressers of the Wilson family elders. Treasures, they'd called them, and then they'd stuffed them behind the loose molding in the den closet, on the shelf under the top stair going down to the basement, behind the dusty rabbinical texts on the top shelf above their father's desk.

Wilson shakes his head to clear it of sentimental cobwebs and goes to find his father. He is sitting in his usual wingback chair, his posture tense, staring in the direction of the television, which is tuned to the weather channel.

"Good show?" Wilson jokes weakly. He is startled by the intense relief he sees in his father's eyes as he rises from the chair.

"James." They share a long, solemn handshake and then both look towards the open door of the sewing-room-turned-bedroom.

"Is she…?"

"Quiet. For now. She got her walker tangled in the phone cord trying to get to the bathroom and she's just been sitting there in her room ever since. Won't talk, will barely look at me…"

"Well, okay, we should probably try to get her up and…"

"I need to go in to work for a few hours. They keep calling," he says vaguely. "My number is on the fridge if you need me. I shouldn't be too late." He pulls a coat from the rack by the door and bundles a scarf around his neck.

"Dad, don't you…"

"James. Thank you." He opens the door and glances over his shoulder.

Wilson clenches his jaw and nods, trying hard not to hold this against his father. None of his marriages had lasted through more than a few bouts of flu and one broken ankle. His dad was a good man and a loving husband, but he'd been a hair's breadth away from retiring two months earlier, before the stroke happened. Their combined social security and his pension couldn't cover the medical expenses, so he did what was necessary, though it clearly took its toll.

When the door clicks closed behind him, Wilson takes a steadying breath and enters his mother's room.

She's slouched in a padded armchair by the window, her face turned away from the door. Miriam Wilson had never been the most stylish woman, but she'd always been meticulous about her appearance and had embraced the changes when her hair went gray and her body softened into pleasant curves. Now her hair is lifeless, a tangled mess the color of concrete, and she rarely changes from a revolving series of flannel nightgowns and house coats.

"Mom?"

She turns with a half-smile on her face, which encourages Wilson to come forward and place a hand on her shoulder. She moves as if to pat his hand, but her right hand only manages to flop back to her lap. Her left hand is still strong, though, which she demonstrates by backhanding a glass of water perched on the table next to her, her mouth forming syllables that her brain can no longer clearly connect to speech.

Like the early-morning phone calls, this is nothing new to Wilson. She is in turns violent and vacant and completely unlike the mother he's always known. Bending to place a rag over the spill, he tries not to visibly react. As he straightens, he sees her thin lips press together and her eyes grow bright with unshed tears. He tries out a smile on his own face and, finding it not too strained, bends down to her eye level.

"I know it's hard. Why don't we get you into bed and you can rest for a bit?" It's not really a question. She looks down, ashamed, and Wilson realizes that the sheets are soiled. "It's okay, mom. We'll get this cleaned up."

Wilson had been a solemn eight year-old when his mom's dad had his first heart attack. On the cab ride to the hospital, he'd gripped his mom's hand and watched her, his brow furrowed, as she whispered prayer after prayer. It was bitterly cold, and when she leaned her head against the window, he could watch her breath condense and solidify on the glass, giving momentary solidity to her intangible words. Prayer given physical form. He would try the same thing that night, his breath freezing against his bedroom window, deciding that he liked the proof that he was doing all he could to help his family.

As the middle child, Wilson had always felt like he needed to take the extra step to distinguish himself from his brothers. He knew, even as a young child, that he received his equal share of his parents' love, but he searched for evidence, something he could hold onto, a specific memory of a gesture or phrase he could replay in his mind later. It was the same way that he'd liked to walk through freshly fallen snow and look back and see that he'd been there, how he'd walk through a puddle and onto dry ground to see the tread of his sneakers in a wet imprint, or how he would eventually settle comfortably into a job where everything was momentary and fleeting, measured in hours and doses and the occasional good news. Some evidence, no matter how brief, that he'd had an impact.

Sometimes he wonders if he's gotten too good at distinguishing himself. His older brother is closer, but their dad doesn't lean on him the same way. "He has a wife, kids…" his dad says. The rest of the statement goes unspoken, but they both know who _doesn't _have those things. Wilson likes to think there are other reasons as well – he knows that his job makes him more suitable for duty and well-tuned to reading the needs of others, not to mention his years of interpreting small details to guess at what House doesn't say.

Wilson finishes making the bed and smoothes the bedspread with his hands before turning to face his mother. He wants to say something but can't decide if his words would help or hurt, so he silently helps her take the half dozen steps to the bed and settles her against the floral pillowcase, places a gentle kiss on her cheek, and goes to start laundry.

On his way to the laundry room, though, he finds himself feeling overwhelmed and he sits heavily on his father's ottoman and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. There's a tight fist of tension forming between his shoulder blades, and his paltry night's sleep makes even the most comforting elements of his parents' house appear too sharp and too bright. He focuses on the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and steadies his breathing, willing some of the tension to bleed off. As he sits there, other sounds start to come into focus: the hot water running through the pipes, the quiet whirr of the humidifier in the corner of his mother's room, and the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle idling to a stop on the street.

His hands drop to his knees and he stares at the door, as though he can see through the wood. Waiting. Several long moments pass and he wonders if he's mistaken, but then it comes: the sound of wooden cane on wooden door.

Out of habit, he peers through the door's small, diamond-shaped window and sees a familiarly logoed bag being held up. He swings the door open so fast that House's reflexes don't have time to register him snatching the bag from his grasp. "I didn't know Dunkin' Donuts delivers."

"Hey, wait," House says, holding out his hand. "It's customary to tip the delivery boy. I'm saving up for a new ten speed."

Wilson flips him a quarter from his pocket. "Start with a single speed."

House easily plucks the coin from the air. "Are you just going to stand there or let me come in? I downed two Red Bulls en route and I bet Ma and Pa Wilson would rather I christen their toilet than their welcome mat."

Wilson leaves the door open and heads toward the kitchen.

"Psych," House says from behind him, and Wilson turns to see him digging through the wallet he'd left next to his keys on the entry table. He pulls out two bills and stuffs them into his pocket. "Mileage reimbursement," he explains, tossing his motorcycle jacket on a chair and popping the cap off his Vicodin.

Wilson leaves him to sift through the stack of mail in the hallway and starts the coffee, plates the donuts, and adds a few pieces of fresh cut fruit for good measure before carrying everything out to the living room. House is standing by the fireplace scrutinizing the photos on the mantle. He pauses at one featuring the three Wilson brothers at the lake as teenagers but doesn't comment.

"Coffee?" Wilson asks, if only to split House's attention.

"What's with the fruit? Feeling a bit irregular?" House swoops in and grabs a donut from the plate.

"Some adults actually prefer to eat more than carbohydrates and sugar for breakfast."

"I made sure to get a blueberry donut. I think one of these might have apple in it, too." He exhales as he takes a bite of his donut and a cloud of powdered sugar settles on the carpeting at his feet.

Wilson picks up an orange slice to prove a point and pours the coffee. Both men settle in silently to watch the TV, which is still forecasting the weather. Between the two of them, the plate is reduced to crumbs and stems and peels in a matter of minutes.

"I need to go start the laundry," Wilson finally says.

"I think I can manage the remote control on my own for a few minutes." House opens his eyes wide and, with exaggerated movements, picks up the remote in one hand and pokes at the buttons with his index finger to demonstrate.

Wilson shakes his head, amused, and takes up the laundry basket once more. His feet tap against the metal strips on the stairs to the basement. The washer and dryer are tucked away in a far corner and he passes his father's den and the now-unused family room. He's flanked on both sides by built-in bookshelves. Every room in the house has at least one set. As a child, he'd been frustrated that he couldn't rearrange his room because of them, but his parents seemed to like them, even adding more as they got older; any excuse to keep things the same, he supposes.

There's a load of darks in the washing machine and he goes to transfer them to the dryer, finding another load of towels and robes there, deeply wrinkled and cold to the touch. His dad's work, clearly. It goes against his nature, but he takes them out to fold rather than sending them through another cycle.

Like the built-in shelves, the scent of the laundry is stubbornly nostalgic. His parents still use the same blue, powdered laundry soap they had when he was a child, and he didn't realize they even manufactured it anymore. He sets to folding.

In his mind's eye, he sees his grandparents. They are all gone except for his dad's dad – a feisty ex-grocer giving all his nurses hell from the nursing home, both his mind and his eyes unclouded by his advanced years. He'd been a widower for the better part of thirty years, and he had always made it clear to Wilson when he'd visit that it's better to be aware enough of life to know the pains of loss – of wife, of independence, of dignity – than to drift along obliviously. Wilson, as one who sees those things daily, has to agree.

His thoughts turn, as they often have since the stroke, to his mom's parents. Wilson's birthday fell two days after his maternal grandmother's, and they often celebrated on the same day. He hadn't minded sharing his birthday. In fact, he thought it made him stand out from the other members of his family, another piece of evidence that he was special. He could remember family photos of the pair of them wearing hats and blowing out candles on the same dinosaur cake, their eyes reflecting the same kind of happiness.

By his seventeenth birthday, the story had changed a bit. They'd found out earlier that month that Danny was schizophrenic, a diagnosis that effectively moved conversations behind closed doors and dropped an unmistakable pall over the household. Wilson had delayed celebrating his birthday with his band of friends – including Jenny Wilkins, who'd promised that she'd let him run his hands up her blouse as a birthday present – to participate in a joint party to see if he could lift some of the weight from his mother's eyes.

Wilson and his grandmother had sat together surrounded by gifts, smiling through the obligatory birthday photos. When his mom had to pause to reload the film in her camera, Wilson had felt the whisper soft touch of his grandmother's hand against his arm. "Let's peek, Georgie" she'd said to him conspiringly, tugging at the taped corner of a brightly wrapped package. He'd smiled back at her, thinking it was a joke, but when he looked again, she had the package half open and had moved on to the next one with childish enthusiasm.

"Mom!" his mother had exclaimed, returning with a new roll of film. "I wanted to get pictures of you two opening together."

Wilson's grandmother had seemed to regress further, shrinking in on herself at this admonition, and she gripped her hands tightly and looked to be struggling not to cry, her lips pursed tightly together. Wilson, now unnerved, looked between the two and saw his mom exchange a worried glance with his dad.

There were no desperate prayers that time, at least none that Wilson saw. Unlike with his grandfather, there was no need to bargain for more time. When he'd finally received the phone call of his grandmother's passing while he was frantically cramming for an organic chemistry exam, Wilson had heard the relief in his mother's voice. It was clear, even beneath the grief. He'd flown home on the redeye for the funeral early the next day, his notes still in front of him on the plane ride, and returned to school the following week to a full schedule of make-up work. When his birthday came later that year, his family let it pass with no fanfare, as though by unspoken, mutual agreement.

Laundry folded, Wilson returns to the living room, unsurprised to find House not where he'd left him. He hears a muffled voice down the hall and finds House leaning against the desk in the guestroom.

"…and you didn't think to check her lungs?" A pause. "Well, if I wanted to trust the doctors in the ER, I'd have hired them instead of you lot. Run the tests again and then draw straws to see who's getting fired when I get back." He snaps the phone closed.

"You have a case?" Wilson asks.

"Not really. Grabbed one from the stack to keep 'em busy. Antiphospholipid syndrome secondary to lupus erythematosis. I'm interested to see who takes the bull by the horns while I'm away." 

"Isn't that what Foreman's there for?"

"In this scenario, he's the bull."

"Any forerunners, yet?"

House makes a face and waves his hand dismissively by way of response and prowls around the room's perimeter. He uses the tip of his cane to prod a child-sized rocking chair, propelling its occupant, a stuffed bear wearing a cowboy hat, to the floor. Wilson automatically moves to brush it off and replace it.

"Another cancer consolation prize?"

"No." Wilson sighs. "It was Danny's. This whole room was, actually." They had only really talked about his younger brother once before, and he can tell he has House's full attention now.

"Yeah, I could tell from the lovely hotel room aesthetic."

"After he left, Mom used to keep more of his things out in case he came back. She always thought…." He trails off, deciding how much he's willing to say, and starts again. "Dad was never that optimistic and he thought keeping the room as it was made it like a tomb, so he boxed everything up."

"So why not the bear?"

Wilson, hands on hips, turns to face House. "What do you mean?"

"If it was just for the sake of having a visible reminder of your brother, there are pictures all over the house. There are no kids here to enjoy playing with it, and a cowboy teddy bear certainly doesn't go with the rose wallpaper border, especially if you consider how well-coordinated the rest of the house is. It's an anomaly."

"No, it's a teddy bear; it doesn't have to _mean _anything."

"Interesting."

"Do I even want to know what?"

"I just never realized that keeping pointless tokens was part of the Wilson family pathology. It explains a lot, actually."

Wilson sighs again. "And I suppose your mom threw away all of your stuff the second you left for college."

"Wouldn't surprise me; I've never asked." House turns away as he says this and idly opens one of the desk drawers. There's something off in his tone, an odd tightness Wilson associates with conversations dealing with his parents or his childhood.

Feeling guilty for treading on the unstable ground, Wilson shifts the subject abruptly. "I don't suppose any of your new recruits specialize in home care?"

House must know exactly what he's doing, and he plays along. "I don't think palliative care is what my patients are looking for from me."

"Yeah, I didn't think so." They leave the room and Wilson closes the door behind them and lets out a jaw-cracking yawn.

"That's the fifth one of those in the last ten minutes. Before you dislocate your jaw, maybe you should consider treatment."

"Caffeine?"

House smirks. "I was thinking more along the lines of rest, but hey, if stimulants are your thing, I passed some enterprising young fellows on the way here who I'm sure could hook you up."

"I'm not that – " Wilson breaks off mid-sentence to yawn again – "tired."

"Clearly."

Wilson spares an apprehensive glance at his mother's room.

"Don't worry. I can listen for her during commercials," House assures him, flopping on the Wilsons' couch and picking up the remote. When Wilson doesn't move immediately, House prods him in the hip with his cane. "You're blocking the show. Today we find out if Marissa's newborn baby carries the necessary antibodies to cure what's killing the hospital's chief of surgery despite being sired by his arch rival."

"Well, I wouldn't want you to miss out on that." When House doesn't respond, his focus already zeroed in on the opening credits, Wilson throws up his hands in defeat and retreats to his parents' den to stretch out. His dad had installed the padded bench himself with the help of Wilson's older brother to cover an ugly tangle of pipes and wires. As a child, whenever his mom washed a load of whites, Wilson would curl up on the corduroy cushion and listen to the hot water coursing through the pipes, the heat rising and warming the seat from below. He'd wake up later with lines pressed into his face and no memory of falling asleep.

He's the one doing the laundry now, but the effect is the same. When he next opens his eyes, it's more than an hour later. The heat has eased the tension from his shoulders and lower back and he doesn't want to move. Not until he remembers that he left House to watch over his mother.

Wilson is surprised to find the pair of them sitting together in front of the TV, which is tuned into the Game Show Network. Miriam is sitting on the couch, her lap covered with a blanket Wilson is certain had been stored in the hall closet. House has moved to occupy the wingback chair and is sitting back and roundly insulting a nervous _Jeopardy _contestant. Miriam follows the progress of his cane, where it turns lazy circles between his fingers, with hazy, watery eyes and a small smile on her face. She'd always liked House, for reasons she'd never made clear.

_Of course __**that**_, he muses_, would be something that remains the same_.

"We're hungry," House says.

"Oh, are _we_?" Wilson glances at his mom and is surprised to see her nodding, if a bit vacantly. "Oh. I don't know what dad has in the fridge, but I'm sure I can come up with something."

He returns 15 minutes later with two plates of easy-to-handle finger foods and looks around for the lap table they'd rigged for his mother. As he fusses with getting her set up, he notices that the other plate is still sitting there untouched. He's never known House to be in such close proximity to chips without eating them, so he flashes him a questioning look.

"Fruit twice in one day? Are you trying to healthen me up or something?" House pushes the plate towards Wilson and settles back in the chair.

"'Healthen' isn't a word."

"And _this_ isn't appetizing. You eat it; I'll grab something on the way home."

Wilson feels stung. House has insulted nearly every aspect of his personality and lifestyle, but his cooking is sacrosanct. He takes a bite of the sandwich and furrows his brow. "What do you mean? This tastes fine." He takes another bite, then a third. He's nearly done with the sandwich and a few of the pieces of fruit when House swoops in and snatches a handful of chips.

"What?" he says, chomping loudly. "You made it look good."

Though House reveals nothing, Wilson gets the full measure of what is happening from the approving look on his mother's face. _Oh. Of course. _After all these years, Wilson wonders why he would ever presume to take House's actions at face value. He pops the last bit of sandwich into his mouth and sighs in a satisfied way.

"I guess I was hungry."

House's look conveys "Well, duh" as clearly as if he had spoken the words out loud. Instead, he says, "Your mom and I would also like a glass of milk," and focuses his attention again on the TV.

Taking the hint, Wilson goes to the kitchen and, smiling, pours himself a glass of milk.

They watch TV together for the better part of an hour, House flicking between syndicated episodes of _Judge Judy _on three different channels. The plight of one of the defendants is ludicrous enough to set House and Wilson off, and the release feels so good that Wilson laughs until he is doubled over with one hand braced against the coffee table. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his mom reach out and pat House's forearm. House offers a tight-lipped, but genuine, smile in return, but he recovers quickly when he notices Wilson's attention. He nods his head towards Miriam and Wilson watches his mom blink heavily a few times, her eyes unfocused.

House averts his eyes politely as Wilson helps her back to bed. There's more lightness between them, and when he bends down to kiss her cheek, he can almost imagine that things will be okay. "I love you," he says quietly and shuts the door behind him.

Once again, House is not where he'd left him, but this time he is gathering his belongings rather than psychoanalyzing the décor. A positive change, Wilson thinks.

"Taking off, then?"

"Stating the obvious, then?" A pause. "I need to get back and make sure the kids don't accidentally kill our patient while proving how capable they are."

"That seems fair. So you just stopped by to watch TV at my parents' house and eat their chips?"

House appears to stop and think about his response. "Tension and release," he says finally as he leans his cane against the wall and shrugs into his jacket.

Wilson puts out a hand, palm vertical, to stall him. "I don't follow."

"A cornerstone of musical theory. It's based on the idea that the dominant chord in a song builds up expectations and suspense in the listener. It's more abrasive and insistent, with an element of dissonance." He picks up a paperweight, tosses it into the air, and catches it. "But listen to music that's just like that for too long, people get tired of it, their brains can't process it. So there's release, the shift to the tonic chord – "

"Wait, tonic chord?" Wilson asks. He'd taken piano lessons as a kid but had never progressed much further than memorizing each key with its associated sharps and flats.

" – which is the payoff," House continues, uninterrupted. "Without the tension, you end up with that easy listening, elevator music. All release. More melodic, perhaps, but it's boring. The change and balance between the two is what makes music interesting."

"Okay, but what does that have to do with anything?"

House gets the Wilson-is-being-obtuse look on his face and taps the floor impatiently with his cane. "I can't believe I wasted a perfectly good metaphor on you."

After a few moments, Wilson catches up to House's train of thought. "Oh, I get it. I'm the release to your tension, the human equivalent of elevator music. Very flattering."

House raises an eyebrow. "Tell me where I'm wrong. You practically reek of resolution. Take right now: I've more or less changed your middle name to Muzak and you are still just seconds away from agreeing with me on this."

The two of them eye each other for a tense moment before Wilson sighs and flashes a smile. He knows when he's been beaten. "Forgive my confusion, but you usually don't take the pro-balance stance."

"Because balance isn't usually interesting."

That's practically a declaration of love from House, so Wilson lets it drop and gestures for House to proceed.

Wilson holds the front door open as House pauses at the top of the steps. "See you tomorrow, House." He wants to say more, to thank him, but he knows House's limits.

"I'm assuming that means at the hospital. I don't think Cuddy will let me play hooky two days in a row."

"I'll write you a doctor's note," Wilson says, and he is rewarded with a chuckle.

He hovers without appearing like he's hovering as he watches his friend navigate the five steps leading down from his parents' front door. House puts on his helmet, hitches his leg over the motorcycle, nods to Wilson, and takes off with a roar.

When House turns the corner and Wilson can no longer hear his bike, he closes the door and stands there for a minute, his hand automatically going to rub at the tension in his neck. He finds, though, that the tension is mostly gone, his muscles warm and pliant. He's also pleasantly sated and can feel the remains of his parting smile to House still lingering on his face. Smiling more fully, Wilson shakes his head and goes to deal with the laundry.

As he smoothes the warm fabric out with his hands, he wonders what, precisely, House had done. House had been House, and that, it turns out, was just what Wilson needed.


End file.
